objects together with background

This ten-minute eternity,

this unwavering, perpetual bubble

in which i sit,

temporarily immortal

inside this enclosed nothing,

and even though i should be washing dishes,

or airing out the place,

i’m writing this,

i observe what happens through this,

this is how i look

inward while watching myself from the outside,

like when watching TV

you take

a big breath

before the dive

and hold it alongside the protagonist

to see

how long you would last,

when you’d finally drown –

only that the rice is the protagonist now

and i’m the breath,

we’re not drowning,

at most, we’re pleasantly afraid

of what will appear in front of us here in eternity,

the worse it is, the better

the worse it is, the better,

because secretly we’re still waiting

for something to stir our hearts

or destroy us,

something ought to destroy us,

as if that were evidence

of a reason beyond question for anything,

although, as you look around,

you find

that every moment is deeply moving,

it’s just us who can’t

be moved anymore,

we more enjoy throwing full glass bottles at the wall

than drinking them,

and even though we’re writing this poem,

here and now

for an eternity,

until the rice cooks, I mean,

for it takes an eternity to cook,

and though we try,

poems aren’t really good for anything,

yet they could have ended at least

one of those never-ending wars by now,

it’s not worth it,

but that’d be something,

and to comfort, because that’s almost infinite–

should I say at this point,

that

I think everything will be okay?

I don’t think anything will be okay,

and if i’m comforting you with this, don’t take me too seriously,

yet, at the same time, take comfort,

just please know

that you shouldn’t,

see, even i

go to empty clothing stores for answers

to my questions,

where the music blares hopelessly

onto all these ugly shirts,

because i recognize myself in this,

in the heartfelt responses to the

empty questions,

but right now there’s quiet in the windows,

seven degrees,

a knife in the heart of sunday

this house, as it stands still,

and so does the earth,

and i’m sitting here in sweatpants, in the sound of rain,

at the kitchen table,

observing life,

a nice red sweater,

and i’m not cold,

but i scratch at this eternity from inside,

from which there is no escape,

where

tired gold lines connect

everything to everything

earth with sky,

night with day,

me with your breathing,

forever,

that is,

just until the rice cooks.

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Translation by Timea Sipos